Chapter 88: The "Glorious" Purge
Through Kian's high-magnification optic, the scene 1,400 meters away at the treeline was a dark comedy. A single Chimera Armored Transport rumbled slowly into view, followed by five heavy military trucks.
The convoy ground to a halt in the fallow fields. They didn't advance immediately. Instead, they began to offload the "meat."
As the PDF regulars scrambled out of the trucks, Kian had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. If he laughed, he'd lose his breath control, and his zero would be ruined.
Over a hundred soldiers were stumbling out of the cargo beds. Some tripped over their own boots, rolling into the irrigation ditches. Others leaned against the truck tires, clutching their helmets and dry-heaving. They moved with the grace of a herd of poisoned grox—shoulders slumped, heads low, their hands trembling so violently they could barely hold their rifles.
Kian's "special" vintage had worked perfectly. The impurities and methanol had turned their nervous systems into a soup of agony. These men didn't want a "Glorious Purge"; they wanted a dark room and a gallon of water.
Inside the sealed hull of the Chimera, Lieutenant Winchester didn't dare set foot in the mud. He stayed behind the reinforced plasteel, his voice booming through the external loudhailers.
"You miserable, throne-rotted curs! Who authorized that binge yesterday?! If this objective isn't secured by midday, I'll have every one of you stripped and given ten lashes! Form up! Forward!"
The conscripts let out a collective, miserable groan. Driven by the fear of the whip, they donned their scuffed helmets and formed a loose, pathetic skirmish line behind the armored transport.
This company was a standard Imperial hammer: eight infantry squads—each with a sergeant carrying a sub-stubber and a specialist with a 100-round light machine gun—and two heavy-weapons teams lugging disassembled 20mm Heavy Stubbers.
In the right hands, those 20mm guns were terrifying. They could shred light armor or, according to regimental legends, put down a Traitor Astartes if you hit him enough times.
Added to this was Winchester's "Family Guard"—ten elite retainers huddled inside the Chimera's hold. They were a different breed: Grade-4 Carapace armor, high-end Las-rifles, and tactical visors. Winchester was keeping them in reserve, his personal shield against the "Unclean."
The PDF formation began to move into the woods. They ignored the dirt road entirely. Winchester wasn't a total idiot; he knew about road-side IEDs. He ordered the Chimera to forge its own path, the heavy treads snapping the trunks of industrial trees like matchsticks.
Inside the cab, the driver frowned. The engine's roar was... off. It sounded like an old man with a chest infection—a wet, grinding wheeze that vibrated through the floorboards. The chassis was shuddering more than usual. But the driver wasn't Sergeant Niklas; he didn't care for the machine's soul. He just assumed it was a "Standard Maintenance Issue" and pushed the throttle harder.
The Chimera charged into the forest, its turret whirring.
The Auspex was active. On the gunner's terminal, the rebel warren 1,400 meters ahead was glowing bright red. He could see the heat signatures of the rebels hiding behind the shacks and in the trenches.
"Target-lock established, sir," the gunner reported. "Five hundred hostiles detected in the primary camp. They're attempting a tactical withdrawal toward the ridge."
Winchester, sensing his promotion might slip away, screamed: "Open fire! Erase them! Don't let a single heretic reach the heights! Full speed!"
The driver slammed his boot down. The engine shrieked in protest, the ceramite-grit in the fuel-lines beginning to scour the pistons.
Simultaneously, the 40mm Autocannon spoke.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
Two-meter tongues of flame erupted from the muzzle. The high-velocity, steel-core shells shrieked through a kilometer of dense woods, snapping dozens of trees as if they were grass.
Even with the forest providing cover, the accuracy was horrifying. The Auspex gave the gunner "Wall-Hacks." Rebels who thought they were hidden behind concrete walls or thick timber were vaporized. The kinetic energy of the 40mm shells turned human bodies into a red mist that coated the leaves.
Rebels in the forward trenches tried to brace for the impact, but the Chimera tilted its barrel down and fired short bursts. The shells punched through two meters of dirt and timber, detonating in the cramped spaces and leaving nothing but smoking craters and limb-fragments.
The rebels hadn't even seen the tank, yet they had already lost a hundred men.
In the wider galaxy, the Astra Militarum were viewed as expendable fodder. But against primitive peasants, even a single PDF company was a god of war. The "Price of Admission" to see an Imperial tank was one hundred souls.
After firing 150 rounds, the gunner paused. "AP ammunition depleted, sir! Switching to High-Explosive. But with this tree density, the HE rounds might detonate on the branches before hitting the targets."
Lieutenant Winchester began to cough violently. The smell of burnt propellant and cordite had filled the cramped hull, making his Spire-soft lungs burn.
"Throne's teeth! Engage the ventilation fans! Are you trying to suffocate me?!"
The gunner hesitated, his hand over the toggle. "Sir, we're running on the small-variant battery. If we keep the scrubbers on full power, the Auspex and the turret traverse will lose cycle-speed. We need the engine to charge the cells."
This Chimera was a "Monkey-pattern"—the lowest tier of Imperial technology. It lacked the massive power-cores found in the high-end variants. In this tank, energy was a finite resource.
"I don't care about the battery!" Winchester roared, dabbing his face with a silk handkerchief. "I am the Commander! I will not sit here smelling like a grease-pit! Turn the fans on and keep them on! That is a direct order!"
The gunner cursed under his breath but complied. The hum of the fans filled the cabin, sucking the toxic smoke out through the barrel.
Kian, watching the white smoke vent from the cannon's muzzle, checked his watch. The clock on the battery was ticking.
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